


Fear and Trembling

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Minor Body Worship, Sebastian Being an Absolute Tease, Starbucks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, netflix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Don’t pretend you’re not totally excited about that,” Sebastian needles as he catches the direction of Chris’s gaze.“I’mscaredof it.” And has every right to be. Seriously. He really, truly does.Basically: Sebastian and his goddamn Starbucks addiction is going to be the end of Chris. Or else, scratch that.Sebastianis going to be the fucking end of Chris.





	Fear and Trembling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Pure fluff shared privately with [luninosity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity) to cheer her up, which she then said is a thing (cheering, that is) that people need in general these days. I don't necessarily agree that this fits that bill, but just in case she's right, here's this absolutely no-beta-read bit of silliness.

Chris hears the door close, shoes being toed-off to fall in the pile in the entryway, but he doesn’t get up. 

He hears the approach, but doesn’t turn. He feels the dip of the back of the sofa as breath tickles the skin below his ear, and he leans into it as Sebastian kisses the nape of his neck, soft and gentle and intimate for a split second before he pulls away and straightens.

And snorts.

“Really?” he asks, and Chris knows he’s looking at the television.

“Don’t pretend you’re not gonna sit down and watch it with me.” It’s not even a challenge, really. Just a statement of fact.

Sebastian huffs, and walks to the front of the couch, setting two cups onto the coffee table before flopping down, full-bodied onto the cushions.

“Of _course_ I’m going to sit down and watch it with you,” he scoffs, grabbing for the taller cup and stretching out along the lines of the sofa, the arm and the back and the space that Chris inhabits, which Chris maybe would protest if he cared, which he doesn’t.

“Mmm,” Chris hums, enjoying the subtle curve of Sebastian’s arm just at the base of his shoulder blades, letting it soak into him as he eyes the… _other_ cup on the table. Shorter. Clear with a dome and one of those telltale green straws too tall to properly fit.

“Don’t pretend you’re not totally excited about that,” Sebastian needles as he catches the direction of Chris’s gaze.

“I’m _scared_ of it.” And has every right to be. Seriously. He really, truly does.

Sebastian shakes his head, unimpressed. “You’re totally jonseing for it.”

“This is your thing,” Chris protests, because the whole designer-coffee-and-associated-products-with-finned-logos obsession _is_ , in fact, entirely Sebastian’s thing. 

“ _That_ is not my thing,” Sebastian says immediately, sitting up straighter and taking a drink from his big white cup with heat in his eyes, offended at the _suggestion_. “ _I_ have taste, and standards.”

“ _I_ am not the one who should own stock in Mermaid Express,” Chris shoots back.

“Heathen,” Sebastian hisses, and takes a longer sip of something that smells caramely and rich, a little foam lingering on his upper lip and Chris is almost quick enough to lean and clean it off himself but Sebastian’s tongue is deft, and he holds Chris’s gaze the whole time the tip licks it, slow and telegraphing want,

“I know you too well, Christopher,” Sebastian says, a little haughtily. “You’ve been converted.”

Chris raises a brow, because no. No he has not. He has only ever gone there when he’s buying for Sebastian and yes, that fairly often, and yes, he’ll get something because it’s stupid to go somewhere else just to prove a point, save for the fact that Chris has totally done stupider things just to prove a point but that’s _not_ the point so shut up. 

“Okay,” Sebastian concedes, though it’s almost worse than standing his ground because his tone makes it clear to Chris that he doesn’t even fucking _mean_ it. “You’ve at _least_ committed to rushing for Delta Kappa Starbucks.”

Chris rolls his eyes at that. He may have given up arguing when people call him a frat boy—he likes his 24 pack of beer, not the fancy shit, and he could still happily live on pizza, fine, and he really tries not to be a hypocrite so yes, whatever—but he’s not a _pledge_ , to _Starbucks_ , Jesus Christ.

“And _this_ is your thing,” Sebastian carries on—not oblivious to Chris’s inner monologue of retaliation but just far too used to it to let it deter him in practice; “because it’s hilarious, ans your palate is not just unrefined, it’s probably nonexistent—”

“Fuck you.”

“You eat pineapple on pizza.”

And Chris isn’t even going to try to stop himself from rising to that bait.

“That’s not a fucking crime.”

“Gordon Ramsay shot that down,” Sebastian shrugs. “Sorry.”

He is _so_ not fucking sorry.

“Oh yeah, trust the T.V. chef who curses like a fuckin’ sailor,” 

“So basically you, if you could cook.” Sebastian purses his lips and pretends to consider with real gravitas, the bastard. “That sounds fair.”

Chris is thinking up a good comeback, too, something that’ll shut Sebastian up with clear and witty and definitive, and he’s almost got it too, except—

“But _this_ is your thing,” Sebastian beats him to it, but Chris will have it on record that he was _on_ to a reply, goddamnit, and it was going to be spectacular. 

“Because,” Sebastian leans, and pushes the monstrosity in a sweating cup across the table in Chris’s direction: “unicorns.”

Chris blinks.

And again, Chris blinks.

“Unicorns.”

Sebastian nods, unfazed.

“Magical,” Sebastian theatrically wiggles his fingers and waves his hands. “Fluffy, probably,” and he ruffles Chris’s hair which has grown out enough to make it mussable. “Made of rainbows and sparkles and whatever,” and Chris snorts at the wry look in Sebastian’s eyes, the quirk of his lips. 

“Weird colors and unrepentant about it,” he gestures to Chris’s mismatched outfit, holes in the arms of his tee shirt and paint splatters all over his jeans. “All the flavors put together when they shouldn’t work but probably do.”

“This seems like a not-even-thinly-veiled insult,” Chris deadpans, but Sebastian just smiles, and it starts then to turn soft: genuine. 

“Rare.” Sebastian leans over Chris and kisses the pulse in his neck until it starts to pound. 

“Pure luck just to find one,” he mouths at the the beat and fits lips to its shape. 

“Impossible, like you can’t even believe that it exists,” he murmurs, and Chris shivers because he can feel his pulse against Sebastian’s tongue and there’s never been a real doubt, not from the first moment, where his heart belonged, where it fit like no other, better than it settled in his own chest but this is something pure and perfect and Chris sighs for it, something caught up between a whimper and a moan.

“Delicious,” Sebastian mouths up Chris’s jaw, before he glances at the table and adds: “well, probably.”

Chris huffs, a little breathless already because hell, Sebastian’s in his lap at this point and Chris is a red-blooded man, goddamnit, and Sebastian is, well. 

_Sebastian_.

“And of course,” Sebastian spreads his thighs a little wider around Chris’s hips, and oh.

“Topped off with a nice,” and he rolls his own hips, and _fuck_.

“Long,” and his mouth is at the hollow of Chris’s throat as he moves with fluid, absurd acrobatic grace from the tight juncture of Chris’s groin and up to where, well, he’s straining—

“Hard,” Sebastian purrs; “proud,” and Chris arches up into the equally-hard and proud length tenting Sebastian’s impossibly-tight jeans to the point where he thinks they’re going to fucking tear at the seams.

“ _Point_.” And Sebastian emphasizes that one with a nip to Chris’s lips as they part, and Sebastian takes the opening, the unspoken invitation and devours.

And Chris gives in and takes in kind and he’s ready to stretch them both out on the couch, or hell, on the floor, he’s not fucking picky, but then Sebastian’s pulling back and looking at Chris with that _look_ he’s got when he’s about to be a wily little dickhead.

“Oh, sorry,” Sebastian says innocently, but Chris knows he’s not sorry at all. “That’ll melt,” Sebastian nods to the neon-swirled whatever on the table as he grabs for his coffee, raising it up indicatively. “And this’ll get cold.”

Chris stares at him, slack-jawed for a second; he shouldn’t be surprised by this shit anymore, really, but still. _Still_.

“You’re a fucker.”

Sebastian makes a particular show of lick the lid of his drink, smirking around the lip. “Not yet.”

Chris sighs, and grabs petulantly for his frozen unicorn milkshake of fuckery.

“What’s this one on?” Sebastian nods to the static menu still idling on the screen in front of them, asking if they want to start the next episode.

“Quack medicine,” Chris sighs. Which probably won’t _save the world_ , as per the series title,or Chris’s blue fucking balls, but whatever. 

“Oh, fun,” Sebastian enthuses, leaning back against the couch and warming Chris’s side where he settles close, and Chris has the remote in one hand and the unicorn monstrosity in the other and Sebastian’s body alone exudes a certain degree of happy contentment that, from Sebastian, is a contagious, inescapable thing. So Chris fits his lips around the straw and leans back so that where Sebastian’s arm is around his shoulders again, Chris’s posture invites him not just to rest there but to hold, and when Sebastian speaks, it’s sweet and smooth like his coffee, and Chris drinks whatever the fucks in this frappuccino that Sebastian thinks is totally him, and he doesn’t know what it tastes like, really, but the moment, in itself, makes some sense of it, some logic in it: rare. Impossible.

 _Here_.

“Come on,” Sebastian pokes him in the arm; “load that shit.”

Chris laughs, and presses play.


End file.
